


Substitution

by Mintchoc



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Coming of Age, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Red Romance, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintchoc/pseuds/Mintchoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're name is KARKAT VANTAS and you are about to revisit a place of deep EMOTIONAL TRUAMA for you. It will be wonderful, and silly, and maybe a little sad. But probably not until later.<br/>You are the substitute who ends up staying a bit longer then expected. What happens when you meet an equally fucked up little dork and his friends? What then?</p><p>Running with Karkat as a teacher in highschool AU. Because we all know he would be the best teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written fanfiction before in my life. I really have no idea what I'm doing. I hope this doesn't suck to much, Karkat's dialogue feels ooc to me, but I'm working on it. Any suggestions on how to improve would be wonderful. pairings/rating will change as it goes on, prob. Cause it is only one chapter now, and not much has happened. oh and I hate my title with a burning passion. Yeahh lets get this show on the road.

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS, and you don’t know what the fuck you are doing. 

Your stomach curls in discomfort as you stare at the brick-like grey building, and you squeeze your hands into fists at your sides, feeling the prickle of the nails you forgot to cut. 

Who, besides an unmistakable idiot, would decide to revisit the hellhole of his teenage years? 

Because that is exactly what you are doing. The moment you got out of that cesspool of teenage sweat and disappointment, you had done everything in your power to get a teaching license so you could come right back. If you ever needed the final confirmation you are totally batshit crazy, this is it. 

Students are already streaming into the double doors as you steel yourself and reluctantly join the flow of human traffic. You are jostled by sweaty, beefy arms, and your mind makes a three sixty turn to a very similar situation, years ago. You shake your head. Don’t be a fucking idiot Vantas. You aren’t sixteen anymore. A bunch of weedy teenagers can’t hurt you, no matter how lethal they pretend to be. 

It takes much determination --and fine-- maybe a little bit of shoving, for you to find your way to the main office. It might have helped that despite your small stature, you look pretty intimidating, okay? No one wants to have a run in with a sleep deprived guy with anger management issues. You are, of course, thoroughly tired and more then a little pissed off by this point, but do your best to paste a sickly smile on your face anyway. It almost hurts, like the muscles used for smiling are a bit rusty.

A curly haired doughball of a woman practically leaps out of her seat (jostling the desk and scattering papers everywhere) at the sight of you. 

“You must be Mr. Vantas, I’m Kathy Greenly” she gushes cheerfully. It must be a crime to be so fucking cheerful at this early in the morning. You nod, still smiling, and allow your hand to be forcibly flopped up and down. It’s as if she’s never seen a mildly attractive (in a I probably haven’t brushed my hair in weeks) 20 something guy before. Come to think of it, maybe she hasn’t. 

“I’m so sorry for the short notice, but Clear Creek Highschool is so, so grateful to have you taking over for Mr. Peters here.” 

“It’s no trouble,” you grind out between gritted teeth. If you could punch yourself right about now, you would. She smiles saccharinely.

“Coffee?” she offers, nodding towards a table in the corner. You catch a whiff of that heavenly caffeine and nod vigorously.  
She hands you a cup, you take a sip, and--oh god this is awful. You may have gagged a little bit. Just a little. 

The woman cocks her head and squints at you, and it occurs to you a second too late that gagging on proffered refreshments probably something people consider rude. Instead, her eyes light up. 

“You’re awfully young, my goodness!” She proclaims, as if she just discovered one of the secrets of the universe. You snort a little at that, hastily disguising it in a coughing fit. 

“I’m twenty three.” now shut the fuck up. 

To your utmost horror, she reaches out a sweaty hand to pat you heavily on the shoulder, and winks conspiratorially at you. 

“Be careful out there Karkat” -her fond use of your first name is not lost on you- ”those kids will eat you alive,” 

Fuck, she sounds pitying. Your stomach hurts, and all you want to do is turn around now, drive back to the garbage heap you call home, and have a smoke.  
And despite everything, you can’t help agree with her a little. 

When you don’t reply, she looks annoyingly concerned and hurriedly adds:

“I’m sure you will do great. And Mr. Peters will be back in no time!” 

You offer her one final, weak willed smile. Time to stop being a useless tool and get this done. You’re doing this man, you’re making this happen. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

 

====> Be Fine 

It takes you all of five seconds to read every single kid in the room. There, at the back--three huge apes with hair as greasy as Chinese takeout and shit eating grins on their ugly mugs--you know right away from the way the other, smaller kids lean away from them that they are of the thuggish breed. Two girls sitting the front seem more interested in chatting to each other about who knows what inane topics then anything actually happening around them, and you figure they won’t exactly be following your lecture with bated breath. Next to them, a girl with hair so blond its practically blinding watches them with distain written clearly across her delicate features. You decide she looks like an uppity bitch.  
You like the look of the kid sitting behind her even less. His features, though attractive, have a cold, almost reptilian intelligence to them, and he scans the classroom with a disturbingly predatory eye. You suppress a shudder before you can kick yourself, and look away. 

Two boys sitting around the middle catch your eye, mostly because of the amusingly stark contrast they make to each other. One of them, white-blond like the girl in front, is slouched low in his seat, sporting a perfect poker face as if to emphasis just how above it all he is. The little fuck has the gall to be wearing the largest, stupidest pair of shades you have ever seen over his face, probably out of irony. 

The boy next to him is very different. He too is slouched low in his seat, but not out of arrogance--it looks like he’s trying to be absorbed into the hard plastic. He has the messiest black hair you have ever seen, but you catch a pair of bright ocean blue eyes beneath the thick smudged lenses of his glasses. Occasionally he will say something to irony boy, but too quiet for you to hear. Not that you’d be listening, that would be creepy. 

Hey, thats enough sightseeing, fuckface. You have a class to teach, so you clap your hands together like the peppy substitute teacher you are. To your surprise (not really) nothing happens. News flash, no one cares. You had expected a class of pimply assholes, but it was still slightly disappointing. 

“Hey, you going to shut the hell up or do I need to go get a foghorn?” you say as loudly as you can manage, which for someone as well versed in yelling as you, is pretty loud. 

One of the plastic girls in the front looks away from her friend long enough to giggle. Slowly, the weight of many pairs of eyes come to rest on your slight frame, and you feel a grim flash of pride, mixed with something akin to panic. 

“Took you long enough. Welcome to Social studies you mush skulled punks.” you walk to the front of the class and write your name on the board, “I’m your substitute teacher, Mr. Vantas.” 

The boy in the shades snickers not-so quietly and whispers something in the ear of the blue eyed boy, who smiles rather prettily. He’s in direr need of some orthodontia, giving him a decidedly dorky look, but its all rather lovable reall--lovable? No no no, that is definitely creepy.

Irony boy is now muttering another choice comment, looking at you snidely from the corner of his eye, and you feel a blood vessel bulge in your forehead. It’s only 9:30 and it has already been a long, long day. 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU UN-IRONIC IGNORAMUS” the words slip out before you can wonder whether teachers usually curse in class. 

“Did I give you permission to speak? I didn’t fucking think so, you shiny glasses wearing asshole.” You glare around the room at large. “Don’t any of you punks dare look at me like that either. Of course I’m at the end of my rope-- I’ve had a shitty day and the coffee here tastes like something took a crap in it and died.” 

Your tirade is met with silence and dinner plate eyes. 

Irony boy, for his part, merely looks faintly amused, and says nothing else. He nods at you slightly, almost in respect, and you are pretty sure that you have passed some sort of trial, just without the fire. His friend however, looks mortified, and maybe a little terrified, blue eyes going wide behind thick lenses. When he catches you looking at him, he flinches. Mollified, you began to lay out the lesson plan. 

You do attempt not to shout as much, but of course it makes no fucking use and slips out anyway. You also, after consulting an ever so helpful list, discover that the blond asshole is named Dave Strider, and his quiet friend is John Egbert. You have a private snicker at that one. Egbert? The fuck kind of name is Egbert? 

By the time the last student of your last class files out, you are pretty sure most of the kids so far are either afraid you’ll steal their lunch money, or just think you are a joke. All in all, it could have been worse. Exhausted, you drag a hand through your thick, tangled brown hair. God, you could really use a smoke. 

Its lunchtime by now, and you decide to go to the teachers lounge for munchies, as your stomach is growling and whining like an angry hyena. You grab the pile of homework on your way out to look over during break, making your way into the fray.

The hallways are thick with students filing to the cafeteria, and you have to wend your way through the smallest gaps, balancing your ridiculously tall pile of homework. It would be so awful if someone ran into you right now, but that would be both improbable and impossible, of course, so no need to worry. 

You find that you are hands shorter then many of the students, despite them being years your junior. The fact royally pisses you off. However, most seem to be giving you a wide berth, word of your short temper having already gotten around. Good. 

Suddenly, in a twist of fate that lady fortune herself wouldn’t have expected, you knock straight into a tangle of black hair, glasses, and teenage boy. You think you hear a cry of dismay, see someone reaching belatedly for your windmilling arms, before you fall back to land painfully on your tailbone, papers flying everywhere. You thought people only had stupidly cliched falls like that in movies, and really badly written fiction. 

“What the fuck!” you exclaim, scrambling to your feet, sliding ungracefully in the paper coating the ground, and wheel around for your assailant. And blink.  
It’s the blue eyed boy--John Egbert-- and he’s staring at you like you are about preform first degree murder. 

Let’s not rule that out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of the morning from John's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the encouragement, I must say that writing this has been a lot of fun. If you like this sucky little work of mine, why not leave a comment? or actually if you hate it i'd still like to hear from you. I'm still having trouble keeping this well written and not ooc, so any feedback would be really helpful. prob needs a lot of editing   
> some of john POV, hopefully okay mix of angst and humor. it does not progress time too much orz. I tried, and like john I get an A for effort right?

===> Be the lovable dork

You are JOHN EGBERT, and gosh, you can’t say you are looking forward to school much. You stare at the bathroom mirror with the unhallow eyes of a burn victim and reflect (haha get it because it’s a mirror... ok) that you really don’t have a right to be thinking that. You have two really good friends who are willing to put up with your shenanigans and still love the shit out of you, a doting father, pretty much everything you could ask for. For someone who has it all, your face is awfully sunken and desolate these days. You haven’t genuinely smiled just to yourself for a long time. 

You shake your head to clear it of these thoughts, sigh, and try to grin ruefully at your own face. Just another day in the flip-book of life. 

You do your best to convince yourself that every one of your acquaintances is a veritable angel, and skip as spritely as you can down the stairs. It doesn’t really work and you end up stubbing your toe on the landing, but A for effort right? 

You head to the kitchen in search of sustenance. 

DEAR SON,  
HAVE A GOOD DAY AT SCHOOL.   
REMEMBER TO COMB YOUR HAIR. I’M SO PROUD OF YOU.   
DAD

The note is taped to the fridge where it flutters in a slight wind. Your father leaves for work before you can see him, though he always leaves a note, which always says the same thing. It’s as constant as clockwork, yet somehow you don’t find it nearly as comforting anymore.   
You bike to school on your ratty old blue city bike, the gears complaining every time you shift, wind grasping at your hair. You feel a bit nauseated, your hands, clammy, slip a bit on the handlebars.. Please don’t let me run into him again, you think. Please.   
You just want to see Dave’s glasses, Rose’s smirk. Yes, that would be just the thing to cheer you up. 

You feel his gaze tearing at your sweater when turn you pull into the parking lot. Though you don’t see him at first, you know he is looking because of the way the back of your neck prickles, like fingernails are scraping across it. 

You park and lock your bike up, quick, input the numbers, don’t let anyone see your hands shaking. Maybe, you are imagining things. It’s not like he stares at you every morning... oh wait. 

You scan the area, trying not to make it look like you are looking which is largely unsuccessful--you still appear to be a paranoid conspiracy theorist--and you see him. Your blood goes cold. 

You hate the look on his face. It’s stroking, almost gentle, like by looking at you he is running his hands up and down your body. You shudder and tear your gaze away from the icy stare, adjust your backpack. He is just looking at you, and yet it is the most horrifying thing you have experienced, even worse than getting beat up. 

Hey, kid, everything’s going to be fine. Go find Dave. Find him now. 

You practically run inside, brushing past someone that you don’t bother to apologize to. You scan the crowded hallway. 

There, a familiar, shaded face. You feel a little weak in the knees as the fear begins to ebb away. You’ve never been more happy to see your best friend. 

“yo, Egderp” he greets you in the usual monotone fashion. You do your best to appear as normal as possible, arranging your face like one might arrange their living room.   
“Hi Dave!” You return, complete with false cheer. 

“Don’t swallow your gum now or anything but I’m about to drop the freshiest news since Febreze was invented,”   
You blink at him curiously.   
“uh.” You admit that even for you, that was pretty inarticulate. 

Dave looks disappointed. “You’ve failed me man, I was hoping for a serious jaw dropping, ‘oh please tell me more dave-senpai’ reaction.” 

You punch him on the shoulder, weakly. He sighs, for it’s a hard knock life having John Egbert as a best friend.   
“Substitute, we have a substitute in social studies”   
“ooooh.” you elongate the oh on purpose so that he will roll his eyes behind his shades at your extreme level of dorkiness.   
“well, we should get going then!” You add, and are just pirouetting on your heel to do just that when you are stopped by a hand on your shoulder. This is a little weird because Dave is not really a touchy guy, and you have a short irrational moment of panic where you imagine a very different sort of person griping your shoulder. But it is, in fact, Dave. 

“You okay?” he’s looking at you with a genuinely serious expression, not his canned coolkid who doesn’t give a damn serious. 

You freeze, feeling like your throat has closed up. He knows--oh god, he knows. You flail about in your own mind like a lunatic, grasping at straws. 

“I’m fine, perfect,” you gush, unconsciously pulling away from his hand. “Never been better. Don’t worry about it Dave.” 

You are met with the cold, hard stare of his blank lenses, made more terrifying because you know there is likely a very exposed, caring expression under there. 

“Don’t bullshit me man, I know bullshit like this school knows teen spirit. Just give me the deats.” 

You squirm uncomfortably, reaching up to nervously scratch behind your ear, then freezing a second later because hey, that looks suspicious.   
Fumbling for words, you wonder why you continue to perpetuate this farce. Tell him. 

“My dad hasn’t been around much lately, and I know its stupid and everything but it is kinda getting me down.” You say, and watch his face with anxious blue eyes, waiting for him to look away, take the lie, so things can be normal again. 

You let out an inner sigh of relief when he shakes his head, looking non-plussed.  
“You sure that’s it?”   
You nod vigorously.   
“We’re gonna have a heart to heart about this later okay?” He says, then jumps as the warning bell reverberates around the tight hallway.   
“Thanks Dave.” 

You both have to leave it at that, to your immense relief, although you can’t shake the feeling that he keeps looking at you oddly. 

===> Who even is this douchebag? 

Let the record hereby stand that the new substitute teacher is a fucking monster.

When the short young man in the rumpled button down shirt first shuffles into the room, you think, oh, this won’t be so bad, he just looks a little under the weather. Which is understandable, especially for you. Gosh, he sure looks young for a teacher, and you can’t help but wonder how old he is. 

Dave nudges you with an elbow, and you shoot him a look. Of course you know its the substitute, why is this such a big deal? You watch with a flash of pity as the guy scans around the room, looking lost and--you realize with a start--almost a little afraid. It’s stunning, you think, you’ve never seen a teacher look so human before. But as quickly as you catch it, a scowl descends on his face, settling in with the comfort that comes with familiarity. 

Dave has muttered something in your ear which you didn’t really hear, (though you think it might have contained butts?) because you are now looking at the back of Ryan Wilson’s softly gleaming, chestnut-curl coated head. He looks beautiful from behind, the thought twisting in your gut like knife. He has never once turned around to look at you in class, not with Dave sitting so close and watchful Rose just feet away, and you try not to look at him either. You do know his eyes very well though. You know his hands... 

You snap out of it because the new teacher has just clapped his hands together, not doing much to cut through the noise filling the air. 

“Wow, he looks so pleasant, real best friend material,” Dave says, shaking his head in dismissal. “I should get him a fluffy cake that says bffs on it in a real confetti heart or something. Yeah, that would be a cool thing to do and I bet it could get me on the honor roll.”   
You can’t help but let out a small laugh despite yourself.  
“Who puts confetti on a cake?” you whisper back, and Dave is about to say something else before the substitute just starts yelling his head off, brown eyes blazing. 

And the rest of the class goes from there, really. 

===>

You walk back to your locker with Rose. Dave has been held back, to be yelled at by a red faced teacher who is surprisingly not Mr. Vantas--but than a lot of teachers seem to really like yelling at Dave. Who knew, right? 

You’ve always thought Rose was both very pretty and a bit intimidating. It comes from the fact that you are sure she can read your every flinch and lie, human x-ray machine that she is. You know Rose wants to be a therapist, and you sincerely hope she will not use these powers for evil. She is, of course, basically carrying the conversation which is very typical for your interactions. You don’t mind at all, she has a lovely soothing voice a topic interesting enough to use it for. 

“After I turned in my homework today, which was of course on perception and the nature of, Mrs. Jonas told me about a most interesting thing called Prosopagnosia, or if you prefer, face blindness. It is really quite fascinating, for it means that those who are afflicted with this disorder cannot, although they can see perfectly fine, perceive a face. The reason for this is damage to the fusiform--” Rose suddenly cuts off mid sentence, her face going slack and blank. You jump in shock.

You can’t remember the last time Rose just plain old stopped in the middle of a monologue like that, and you can only stare at her dumbly. Wait.... is that drool? 

“I, er, have to go do something John, I’ll meet you at lunch and we can continue this discussion...” she trails off, and to your immense astonishment, simply turns around and ambles away down the hallway, gaze fixed on something--or someone in the crowd.   
As you stare after her retreating silvery hair, you began to have a mild existential crisis. 

Like a cartoon character, you actually slap your face once and tell yourself to snap out of it. A quick look at your watch and you decide to continue to your locker on your own, you can grill Rose at lunch. 

You fumble with the combination, bitting your lip, thoughts of Rose and a very tired looking young man swimming through your head, when a huge hand slams into the locker besides you with a bang like a gun going off. 

You don’t turn around at first, because you already know what you will see.   
“Hey, faggot.” says a deep, amused voice.   
You swivel around very slowly. Why is it that in moments like these, a previously crowded hallway is suddenly very remote?

What scares you is not looking into the face of your aggressor. It’s a hard and cruelly chiseled face for a junior, and yet, you really just find it sad. No, what scares you is the boy standing behind the one who uses all the sharp words and throws all the heavy punches--the one who watches the whole thing, watches you, with that empty expression on his face. 

Hot, acrid breath stings your face. 

“I bet you would just love a little fun, wouldn’t you, cock sucker?” he growls, fisting your shirt. If you had been in a better state, you might have found the pose ironic in how very typical it was, but you are not in a good state, and furthermore, not Dave Strider. 

“Rose,” you manage to get out, knowing it’s hopeless as soon as her name leaves you lips. She is long gone, in chase of whatever it is that could have distracted her from Prosopagnosia. 

“How cute,” said the bigger boy, and turns slightly to look back at Ryan, still holding your shirt. 

You take advantage of his split second’s distraction and bring your knee up to hit the kid in the crutch. It is super effective, and your attacker falls back, howling in pain, and you--well, you run. What else? 

You rip down the corridors, unsure of whether you can hear any pursuers or if it is just adrenaline. You can’t remember the last time you actually managed to get away. As you get closer to the cafeteria, the hallway grows to be more and more packed, and while you rationalize that it is probably safe to stop now, you can’t seem to translate this message to your feet. You’re angry, you realize. It just isn’t fair. You can’t even go to your locker by yourself anymore. You have to be with your friends or everything unravels at the seams. How fucked up is that? You blink down at your shoes, and those are totally not tears you are blinking away, okay? That would be so uncool, not to mention unmanly. 

Its really unfortunate for you that while you are not crying and being totally manly, you kind of run straight into somebody. And knock them over. On their butt. 

Papers scatter everywhere, falling like mutant snowflakes, and as they clear, you can only stare in horror at the person glaring up at you. It’s a small person, yet stocky, with a mop of dark brown hair and brown eyes above miles deep shadows. It is also your substitute, Mr. Vantas, and he looks really fucking pissed. He scrambles to his feet and you jump back in alarm, as if burned. 

“I’m really sorry oh god mr vantas omigosh are you okay let me pick up your papers that was really bad I didn’t mean to here let fix stuff,”   
it all come out in one big rush, and you drop to your knees and begin to frantically scrape papers to your chest, staring up at him hopelessly. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and lets out a long, dramatic sigh.   
“Have you ever heard of looking where you are going,” he hisses “because that would be really fucking great. Oh, and maybe you should ask before you turn someone into the spit-take on cartoon network with your ridicules circus act!”   
You shrink back, unable to look away.   
“While you’re at it, it might be nice to learn how to put a fucking sentence together so you don’t come across as an illiterate hamster toothed fuckass” he’s shouting now, and it’s just as bad as it was earlier. “oh wait, you can’t not be an illiterate hamster toothed fuckass, it is just your natural state, my mistake.”   
“I’m really, really sorry,” you say again, still attempting to draw the papers to you with shaking fingers.   
Mr. Vantas opens his mouth, obviously about to send more abuse your way, but something stops him. He looks angry still, face flushed a brilliant red, but he seems to give you a quick once over. It reminds you of earlier that day, in that something changes in his face, too quickly for you to process however. His gaze travels from your tear -tracked face, to the crumpled shirt.   
“Come with me,” he grabs your wrist, his nails bitting into the soft flesh.   
“I’m sorry?” you mumble, looking at him with wide eyes, struggling to hold onto the stack of stationary with your other hand.   
“I said come with me you twat--did I fucking stutter?” He yanks on your wrist.   
“Come on!”   
And, for the same reason that leads people to go skydiving without a parachute or approach wild animals, you do.


End file.
